


A Lifetime For A Day

by eyeus



Series: Of Croquillants and Apple π [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your Danishes appear dry, over-flaked, and uninspired,” the man informs him. “I don’t doubt the rest of your creations are in the same vein.”</p><p>John blinks. This is new; no one’s ever eviscerated him quite like this before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lifetime For A Day

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [descendingspiral’s](http://descendingspiral.tumblr.com) post [here](http://descendingspiral.tumblr.com/post/46575696184/im-in-favour-of-baker-john-trying-to-woo-the), of “Baker!John trying to woo the elusive customer with the glasses and nice suits every morning with pastry goodness”. 
> 
> The bakery John is assigned to work in is based loosely on the Sugar Sweet Sunshine Bakery in New York, and also the real-life location where Harold is filmed first testing the Machine. The snippet of the song is from Josh Groban’s _Sincera_ (A+, would recommend for Rinch feels). Title is from Sugarland’s _Tonight_.

~

_A lifetime for a day would be an even trade. - Sugarland_

~

It’s nice to get out of the cold, John thinks, as the two of them step into the upbeat little bakery. The walls, cheery pink on one side, green on the other, are peppered with old photographs, illuminated by the glow of cylindrical lanterns.

The visual décor pales in comparison to its olfactory counterpart, however, as the rich aroma of fresh bread, sweet cream, and vibrant, baked confectionery surrounds them, enveloping them in warmth and easy redolence. 

“Do hurry, Mr. Reese,” says Harold, “or we’ll be late for the showing at the vintage theatre.” He’s interrupted the strains of a melody John caught floating by from a tinny speaker—one of those love songs with cheesy Italian lyrics, part of the hallmark soundtrack of any quaint bakery. 

“Just grabbing something for later,” John replies. He turns toward Harold, who’s shifting uncomfortably onto his good leg. His limp’s been more pronounced today, which means his leg must be paining him more than usual, and John makes a note to have heat packs and towels ready when they return to the library. Just as he reaches out a hand to steady Harold, the voice from the speaker belts out, “ _Sempre mi dai forza_ ”. 

How appropriate, a sentiment about receiving strength from another; for him and Harold, it goes both ways. 

“Is there anything you want?” John asks, beckoning Harold closer to the glass display, with its array of multihued cupcakes and pies.

Harold shuffles closer to see, pressing warmly against John’s arm in the process. “Well. Their repertoire of baked goods certainly seems to have improved,” he comments drily. 

It has; in the years since John’s been here, the humble selection of cupcakes and pies has expanded to include items like chocolate croissants, mousse cakes, mocha truffle cookies, fruit tarts and pecan squares. And there, in the last tray of the glass display, are—

“Are those croquillants?” Harold exclaims. “ _Here_?” He furrows a brow and bends to examine them.

“They sure are,” pipes a voice from above them. John and Harold look up at the same time. It’s a young woman in her early twenties, strawberry blonde with a pixie cut. Her nametag reads _Jenn_.

“Ah,” says John, surprised. “That’s…different.” Donuts are a rare commodity in a bakery that specializes in pastries, after all.

“We don’t usually make them,” she shrugs, offering them a sample each, “but there’s a story behind why we have them today. It’s the _one day_ of the year we put these babies out.” She lowers her voice in awed emphasis on _the one day_ , the same reverence one might use to whisper _The One Ring_. “You totally lucked out.”

“Oh?” says Harold, raising a brow, and John can spot the upward tug of his lip that heralds a smile. He’s definitely intrigued now. “So these are _meaningful_ croquillants, then. Do tell.”

The girl—Jenn—smiles back, sunny and bright, before leaning forward conspiratorially to draw them into her tale. “This is only based on what I heard,” she starts, “but there’s this urban legend circulating among the bakery staff…”

And Harold’s nodding, his grin growing wider as Jenn weaves the threads of her story together. Meanwhile, John starts off _hmm_ ’ing in all the right places, but as he listens, his eyes widen and a growing sense of warmth and wonder fills his chest, because this is a story he’s familiar with, a story he knows, because it is, in fact, a story he has _lived_.

~

It’s the first assignment for the CIA John’s had in New York for a while, one that has him working in a small, unassuming bakery with a cozy, open-kitchen design. He’s sure the name of the bakery has the words _sweet_ or _sunshine_ in it somewhere, but it hardly matters—he’ll be in and out of here in a week, depending on whether his intended target shows up.

Still, it’s a definite change from the dark, drafty basements in Hungary where he first learned how ruthless the CIA could be. John allows himself a smile as he places an angel food cake he made in the display stand, then shakes away the reminiscent glow building inside him. Despite how good it feels to be on familiar ground— _home_ , even—he can’t let himself enjoy it. 

He’s got a mission objective. 

Between multi-tasking at the oven and covering the front register, he keeps his eyes peeled for the target: Daryl Matheson, loan officer for OneState bank, suspected of embezzlement and other fraudulent activities. According to the intelligence he’s received, Matheson comes in twice a week to purchase red velvet cupcakes. John sighs, fingers brushing against the vial of slow-release strychnine tablets in his pocket, the ones disguised as crimson sugar sequins for sprinkling onto Matheson’s cupcakes. He supposes different people have different vices: cigars, women, cars—cupcakes are no exception.

The photograph John has of the target is faded and fragile, clipped hastily from a newspaper, but he’s sure he can spot an obese, balding man in this crowd. Most of the customers are young twenty-somethings who stop by for coffee and something to satisfy the sweet tooth, anyway.

It’s during his constant vigilance that John notices the anomaly; not Matheson, but also not within the major demographic of this bakery. A man of shorter stature, with wire-frame glasses and an immaculate three-piece suit. 

Definitely _not_ a young twenty-something.

“Can you see me now?” the man asks, and John almost answers him, before realizing he’s talking to himself.

That, or he’s speaking to someone via a wireless link, because he keeps saying curious phrases like “How about _now_?” while walking this way and that, as if trying to confuse his conversational partner. “How many fingers?” he inquires of the empty air, holding up three.

John notices a phone in the man’s hand now, vibrating three times, as if in answer. 

Whoever the mysterious conversational partner is, he must have a sense of humor, to be communicating in this way. John catches himself grinning, before the man’s eyes meet his, and he ducks behind the counter, mortified at having been caught observing the stranger. The mortification only amplifies when John realizes he’s ducked behind a glass counter. 

_Brilliant._

He grabs a tray and tries to look busy, setting out the raspberry custard Danishes he made earlier in the morning. While the bakery specializes in cakes, he’s been told to try creating some different things, to test the limits of their clientele’s preferences. John grimaces briefly at the Danishes; they’re not the best, considering he’s been working more with weaponry than cooking implements, but they look passable. 

In fact, they look pretty good, if John says so himself.

The sound of a throat being cleared shatters his self-congratulatory moment. “I’d like a green tea, please,” says a brisk voice. “Organic, if you have it.”

John looks up, and _oh_ , it’s the gentleman he was observing. “Right away,” he says, trying to put on his most enthusiastic smile. Maybe he’s on the nervous side of vigilance today, because he over-steeps the tea, and when the man takes a sip, he makes a face, as if it’s too bitter. It’s too _something_ , all right, because he frowns at John, actually glowers at him from above his glasses.

“Erm. Could I interest you in a Danish to go with your tea?” John asks hopefully. The last thing he needs is someone to complain to his boss on his _first_ day on the job. 

“Your Danishes appear dry, over-flaked, and uninspired,” the man informs him. “I don’t doubt the rest of your creations are in the same vein.”

John blinks. This is new; no one’s ever eviscerated him quite like this before. “Oh. Well, here. Try my cinnamon buns instead. They’re um, fresh,” he manages. He pushes a moist bun, swirled with buttery brown sugar and adorned with light, cream cheese frosting forward on a plate.

“Are you going to tell me that I’ll enjoy them because you’ve used a sugar substitute such as aspartame or sucralose in the icing?” John’s self-proclaimed critic asks. He eyes the bun suspiciously.

“No,” says John, “but they taste good.”

Fingers rise to adjust the wire-frame glasses, on a face caught between laughter and being affronted. The man settles for laughter, soft and low, but it’s amusement all the same. “Very well, Mr—I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“John,” John supplies helpfully, struck by the urge to share something of himself, something uniquely _his_ , because even if the CIA and what’s left of his world knows him as _Reese_ , that’s not _all_ he is. 

“…John,” the man repeats slowly, as if he’s testing the word, surprised that he’s on a first-name basis with someone he hardly knows. “I _suppose_ I could purchase a cinnamon bun with the tea.”

After his purchase is rung up, he takes his bitter green tea and bun to a table, plucking a half-folded newspaper from another table on the way, and settles in the corner. John watches him for a while after that, before more customers come and he can’t afford that small luxury anymore. 

It isn’t until the newspaper flops back onto the counter with a slap that John remembers he was even there, nearly startling at the sound. 

“You’re right, it _was_ good. Thank you.” The compliment seems sincere enough. And then: “Perhaps it acted well as a counterpoint to the tea.”

John doesn’t miss the barb, and he feels his face flush, a mild heat across his cheeks. “You’re welcome,” he replies all the same. 

The long, drawn-out pause following that is nothing short of awkward, because now he’s realized he’s fishing for the man’s name. John casts his eyes down, fixing his gaze on the cake-shaped tip jar; there’s no way Mr. Well-Dressed-In-A-Three-Piece will give up something like that. Just because he’s given _his_ name doesn’t make this an exchange between equals. This isn’t a romantic comedy where the two leads bond over baked goods and botched tea. 

“You’re welcome,” John repeats, swallowing hard this time, because where in _hell_ did his mind just take him?

“It’s Harold,” says the man, before picking up what’s left of his tea. His eyes flick toward the corners of the bakery again, settling briefly on another patron with a webcam-enabled laptop, and he nods to John before he leaves. His exit is quiet, without the dramatic flair John thought he’d have.

 _Harold_. John smiles to himself for the rest of the day, keeps the name like a secret, like a treasure, in his heart.

~

Of course, it doesn’t stay a secret for long.

“We’re here to gain the asset’s trust,” says Kara later, back at the agency. John fights an internal wince, because it’s really just code for _We’re here to assassinate by way of poisoned cupcakes_. “Not flirt with the rest of the clientele.”

“I’m not—” John tries, before Kara’s mimicking his _Try my cinnamon buns, they’re fresh_ , and something clenches tight in his chest, hot and angry, because that was his moment alone, not one for sharing with Kara and whoever else was listening to the audio feed. 

Mark, maybe. He cringes inside.

“Really, John. _Harold_?” Kara’s voice is soft, cruel, vivisecting him and dragging the secret he’s kept for his own into the open.

“It’s nothing,” John deadpans. “ _He’s_ nothing. Just part of the job.” It’s a lie, but there’s no telling what Kara will do if she thinks Harold is in the way of their mission.

She rolls her eyes in response. “Rein it in, John,” she says casually, which is when he knows she means business, “or I take him out.” Kara stops swirling the drink she’s been nursing, blood-red liquid settling in the glass. “I said when you see your old friends, you don’t know them. I never meant make _new_ ones.”

~

When Harold returns the next day, there’s enough of the curious tilt to his mouth John can call a smile. “What have you got on the menu today?”

“I…” John begins, but before the excited tumble of _have an apple pie I made just for you and I wonder what you’ll think of it_ spills out, he thinks of Kara, of her threat to harm Harold if she finds John going above and beyond friendly chatter with him. He thinks of Harold, who hasn’t done a thing to hurt anyone besides insult dry Danishes and decides that maybe it’s just best if he keeps the conversation short. Polite.

“I have an apple pie in the works,” he admits, finally.

“You know, that bakery over by Canal Street does a fair apple pie,” says Harold. 

John frowns. “Personally, I think they use too much butter.” It’s the truth. 

This time, Harold actually laughs, honest-to-god _laughs_ , and John joins in, because it’s easy and natural and feels right. “I guess I’ll have to try yours, then,” Harold says. “For comparison’s sake.”

There’s no one else in the bakery at the moment, so John nods and hurries to check on the pie. It’s cooled sufficiently to be cut without crumbling beneath the knife, but still warm enough to fan out the aroma of crisp apples and buttery golden crust. John returns with a generous slice of the pie on a plate. 

“Ah.” Harold leans forward to examine the pie thoughtfully. He makes his purchase and settles at the same table in the corner, this time with a laptop. 

Like before, John watches him, discreetly observing Harold savor each apple slice smothered with luscious cinnamon filling, though he doesn’t dare to for long. Kara’s got direct access to the audio feed through his earpiece, but who knows if she’s watching surveillance footage too? He doesn’t need her to see him mooning after the first person who’s been genuinely civil with him, albeit direct, in a while. 

Not that John is _mooning_.

When he’s finished and packed up his laptop, Harold returns to the front counter, setting his plate and fork into the reservoir of dishes for later cleaning. “Passable,” he decrees, though the quirk at the corner of his mouth suggests otherwise.

“Passable?” John raises a brow. For a _passable_ piece of pie, Harold’s eaten the whole thing. 

“Fishing for compliments won’t get you far, John,” replies Harold, and there’s the faintest frown line building between his eyebrows, eclipsing the earlier wonder on his face from the pie. “Consistent perseverance, on the other hand, _will_.”

John sucks in a sharp breath, surprised. The infrequent glimpses of boyish pleasure from something as simple as a pastry make it easy to forget this man has spikes of his own. 

Harold must sense his own misstep, because he adds quickly, “Perhaps you could show me what else you’re capable of? When I return tomorrow?” There’s the tug of another, shyer smile forming.

John mirrors the expression. “Of course.” He breathes out again, letting the tension bleed out from his shoulders. “Any special requests?” he adds cheekily. Harold’s subtle jabs have goaded John into striving for higher ground in his baking, an unexpectedly peaceful aside from the _infiltrate-and-exterminate_ missions he’s used to. Maybe it’s only fair that Harold gets something in return.

Harold stares at him, stunned. As if it’s the first time anyone’s asked what _he’s_ wanted. 

“Surprise me,” he replies at last. Then he’s out the door, and the bell above the door jangles in the wake of his exit, as if signaling the start of a match.

~

From Kara’s comments regarding the previous day, John’s established that certain areas of the bakery double as audio black spots (one of them, curiously, at the corner table that Harold occupies when he’s in), and that the target is of low enough priority that she’s only bothered to install one video camera, trained on the entrance of the bakery. It makes things easier, because now John can concentrate on baking instead of worrying about being overheard or seen.

Especially because he’s decided on a _whopper_ of a surprise today.

He’s been mixing croissant dough himself and wrapping actual chocolate chunks into it before baking, instead of lathering the dough with chocolate sauce like he’s seen done at some places. And when they’re finished, the aroma of chocolate baked into layers of golden pastry billowing out from the oven is only half the reward.

“Pain au chocolat?” Harold inquires, arching a brow as he walks through the door. He’s returned at the same time as yesterday and the day before, like clockwork. 

John gives an enthusiastic nod, because yes, that French phrase sounds miles more sophisticated than “chocolate croissants”. “Yeah,” he says, committing the French name to memory. _Pain au chocolat_. “I liked them when I was younger, thought I’d try to recreate the taste.”

“Is that so?” Harold seems to allow himself a smile before biting into the flaky pastry. “Oh,” is all he says, after the first bite. 

If John were to stretch for hyperbole, he’d say Harold’s gone misty-eyed, as if remembering some other long-forgotten chocolate croissant of his childhood, and it’s _this_ —his expressions, his reactions, the way Harold savors his creations, as if John’s created something heavenly with his hands, instead of the violence and horror they’ve wrought—that constitutes the other half of his reward.

He lets his gaze roam, appreciating the view of Harold’s throat muscles working as he swallows, his Adam’s apple as it undulates. Imagines sliding his fingertips against the lovely paleness of Harold’s throat. Thinks of touching with more than just fingers, maybe laving his tongue against that exposed span of flesh—

“John?” Harold’s caught him staring, and though his expression doesn’t quite darken, it borders on unreadable. 

John manages a weak grin, as if his eyes hadn’t just grown heavy-lidded, breath hadn’t caught in his throat, distracted. _Recovery time to hide arousal: 1.2 seconds_. “Your verdict?” he asks. 

“It’s…good,” Harold nods. “It’s very good.” He actually beams at John this time, and John lets out a slow, calming breath. _Good_ in Harold-speak translates to _excellent_. It’s not as surprising as his next statement, however. “Could I get a dozen to go?”

The question John means to ask lies somewhere between _A dozen?_ and _To go?_ but what he ends up asking as he arranges the croissants into a paper box is, “You’re leaving already?”

And doesn’t _that_ just sound needy. This, on the heels of being caught staring with undisguised want by an incredibly perceptive man. John winces. 

“I mean, you only just got here,” he tries again, and _dear lord_ he’s digging himself deeper into this hole and there is nowhere behind a glass counter to hide. 

“I have a few things I need to take care of at work.” Harold touches his wire-frames in thought. “I’ll be back. Tomorrow.”

John’s not even sure when he started needing reassurance of Harold’s presence, or why Harold’s started giving it, but like their baking-and-critique exchanges, it’s a give and take that goes both ways.

“Tomorrow,” nods John. He doesn’t have to fake his smile this time. 

Neither, he thinks, does Harold.

~

The fourth time Harold comes by, he stops only long enough to dash in, grab a set of John’s attempt at cream puffs (globby misshapen things, overfull of custard, but Harold eats one and tells him it’s hideous yet delicious, which John takes as a classic Harold-esque compliment) and his customary green tea, and dash out again, all the while mumbling about disastrous coding errors at his workplace.

Actually, he has just enough time to fumble his change in the hurry, scattering coins awkwardly across the counter, and when John tries to help him pick them up, their hands brush together—a whisper-light touch of fingertips and knuckles that has John thinking _warm, soft_ —before Harold snatches his hand back, mutters, “Keep the change,” and dashes off. 

The bell over the door jingles frantically as he flees, and John stares after him, wondering if he’s mistaken the pink in Harold’s ears for something else. He presses the pads of his fingers against the knuckles that brushed Harold’s; there’s no possibility of heat conduction, especially in the span of a second, but his fingers feel inexplicably hot where Harold’s touched him.

_Hot._

Hotter than the heat from any oven, than the burns from torture-driven interrogation.

Before he knows it, John’s tugging a pair of gloves out from the box by the register, just to preserve that quick press of warmth.

“Hey, wasn’t that the guy who gave you trouble a few days ago?” comes a voice from behind him. It’s his co-worker, Lissa, with a tray of hot caramel cookies in her hands. She was within earshot that first day, and has since then given John some tips on tea-making.

“No, he’s—no.” John shakes his head, trying to dampen the silly smile that’s somehow spread across his face. “It’s fine.” 

Lissa slots the tray into the display, and as she stands up, re-pinning her blonde hair back in its bun, she cracks a grin at him. “Looks to be _more_ than fine, if you ask me,” she laughs, and John steels himself, because here it comes, some dig about the gloves he’s donning and their secret purpose.

“John, it’s okay.” Lissa’s pitched her voice lower, quieter. To reassure, as if she’s twigged onto his discomfort. “Really.” 

She turns to go back into the kitchen, and though John’s not certain what she’s reassuring him _for_ , exactly—perhaps that he’s flirting with a customer, or that Harold’s a man—she doesn’t say anything about the gloves, so neither does John.

He keeps them on until he has to return to the agency.

~

When Harold drops by the bakery the next day, John’s ready to greet him with a bright “Hi!”, before he notices the older gentleman hurrying to catch the door behind him.

“I’m sorry I was in such a rush yesterday,” Harold calls out, with an apologetic smile that’s all genuine. 

John smiles back; it’s good to know he hasn’t scared Harold off with his naked _want_ from the other day. It must be the immense relief at work, because he’s about to tease, “You’ve got a secret admirer,” in the curious gentleman hanging back by the tables, the one who was inspecting the bakery before fixing his penetrating stare on Harold.

Before John can share his witty remark though, the man claps a hand to Harold’s shoulder. It’s subtle, the way Harold startles, but John doesn’t miss the soft hiss of breath, the way his fingers blanch white against the glass display until he composes himself again.

“So _this_ is where you’ve been spending your free time,” says the other man, affecting a Southern drawl. His features run counterpoint to Harold’s: tall where Harold is not, a wave of wind-tousled blonde hair to Harold’s close-cropped brown, tanned with an array of laugh lines to Harold’s pale and usually taut expression. 

He looks like authority, albeit terribly casual.

“I was wondering where you disappeared off to for the last few days, but the cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it?” He’s all quiet amusement and pleased smugness, the cat that’s got the cream at having discovered this secret, this guilty pleasure of Harold’s.

“Curiosity _kills_ cats, Nathan,” Harold replies irritably. “And yes, you found me, back pats all around. Now that you’ve seen the place, let’s _go_.” He tries to herd Nathan out the door. 

John narrows his eyes; he can’t quite suss out the details of this “Nathan” character. Perhaps he’s an ex-lover Harold’s embarrassed of.

“I just don’t see anything special about this place, Harold. Everything they sell here, we’ve got. Within walking distance, even—” Nathan’s saying, before he catches sight of John standing at the counter. “Oh.” He turns to Harold, and a slow, mischievous grin inches across his face. “ _Oh_.”

“It’s not what you think,” Harold mumbles, and John’s pretty sure that the pink flush surging across Harold’s face and neck tells Nathan it’s _exactly_ what he thinks.

John does his best to appear nonchalant as Nathan saunters up to the counter. “Can I help you with anything?”

“No, but my friend here has something he’d like made to order.” Only a blind man would miss the lascivious wink he throws Harold’s way, and Harold’s answering glare doesn’t seem to faze him at all.

Something loosens in John’s chest, because no ex-lover would be _that_ forward.

Nathan does, however, turn out to be an extremely enthusiastic wingman, going so far as to settle in a corner of the bakery while Harold resignedly picks out a few pastries from the display. It’s unnerving, trying to hold a conversation with Harold while Nathan sits at the table with his legs crossed, hands locked over his knee, just _beaming_ at the two of them. 

“I’m sorry about this,” Harold says in hushed tones. “That’s my boss. I suppose he followed me here and…” The rosy flush on his face darkens into a dull red, creeping down his neck and rising to the tips of his ears, confirming John’s suspicion from the previous day.

Nathan’s behavior points to being more of a friend than a boss now, but John reaches out cautiously, sets his hand on Harold’s shoulder, right where Nathan had it before. Even if he’s established that Tall and Lanky In A Suit isn’t Harold’s lover, there’s still a tight kernel of possessiveness stirring low in his stomach. 

“I know the feeling,” John replies, looking straight into Harold’s eyes.

It’s a risk because Kara or Mark could be listening, but Harold seems like he could use some empathy, and the odd mixture of forlorn embarrassment in his expression makes John want to reach out, to comfort with a touch.

It actually has the _opposite_ effect, and Harold backpedals out of there faster than a cyclist in the Tour de France, babbling about coffee breaks being over and dragging Nathan with him. The last John hears of them is the fading echo of Nathan’s laughter, and his imparting of sage advice in the form of _Buck up, why don’t you, and just ask that nice baker_ —before the wind catches the door and slams it shut. 

He tells himself he’s only slightly disheartened that Harold didn’t get to try the cheesecake enrobed in white chocolate John made today, in his presence; that their moment together passed without the _present pastry-receive critique_ exchange that’s come to mark most of their daily meetings. Somehow, he’s grown used to Harold’s brand of ambivalent reviews—a touch of acid with an honest compliment hidden within—because they’re the ones that reveal the kind of man he is. 

That beneath the façade of frost is someone warm, someone who very much _cares_.

~

“John?” There’s a tap at his shoulder while he’s bent over rearranging the pastries on the display trays _just so_. “I need a favor.”

He slides the moveable door shut, enclosing the day’s assortment of tarts and cookies in glass, pristine among the centerpiece he’s made for today: crème brûlée topped with glazed blueberries and raspberries. “What is it?” John asks. He’s not in the habit of denying Lissa favors, especially when she’s been so helpful in sharing her knowledge regarding tea making and baking.

“Would it be okay if we switched breaks? I’d like to take mine later so I can meet up with my boyfriend.” 

“Sure, I guess?” John blinks, dazed. He’s done his research on the employees of the bakery itself, even before setting foot in to apply for a job, and Lissa doesn’t have a boyfriend. She and her girlfriend have, however, been together for three years. 

They both turn at the sound of the door swinging open, accompanied by a light tinkle of the bell.

It’s Harold, with his impeccable sense of timing, and John perks up at the sight of him before remembering he’s traded his break as a favor; he won’t get to be at the counter now that Harold’s come in, won’t get the chance to show off his crème brûlées. 

The tiniest frown must pull at his mouth, because Lissa tugs the sliding display door aside and reaches in for the roundest, most perfectly caramelized crème brûlée, topped with raspberries of luscious red, blueberries glazed to sapphire.

“Here, take this,” she says, pressing the little custard tin into his hands. “It’s on me. For being so accommodating.” She smiles, gives John a push. “Go on.”

“John?” Harold asks, brows raised in puzzlement, when John steps away from the counter. 

With a nod of acknowledgment, John starts removing his apron, hoping to hide the flour-and-custard-speckled cloth in his pocket, before he notices Harold watching, _concentrating_ , as he undoes his apron strings. It takes John a moment to place Harold’s expression—the lowered lashes, slightly parted lips, the kind of intense focus one might have while viewing a particularly forbidden striptease—

 _Oh_ , John realizes. While Harold is usually more subtle about his own desires, it’s suddenly evident that Harold also very much _wants_ in return.

“Harold. I was just—I’m on my break,” John tries, and there’s a brief twitch of dismay on Harold’s face before he’s composed himself again. 

“By all means,” Harold replies with a thin smile. He gestures for John to continue onward, wherever his destination might be. “It wasn’t my intention to interrupt your break.”

The moue of disappointment he’s struggling to hide doesn’t escape John’s notice, but it’s not until John’s examining the crème brûlée in his hands (settling his gaze on anywhere but Harold and his adorable pout) that it strikes him: _this_ is what Lissa was planning all along, with her hushed whispers and generosity, opportunity in the form of cream-colored goodness.

“Why don’t we share this?” John suggests, grabbing a couple of spoons. He herds Harold over to the corner table, away from prying eyes and ears, because this moment is his and Harold’s alone—not the CIA’s, not anyone else’s. 

Harold opens his mouth as if to make a token protest, but by the time they’re seated at the table, any and all protests have been thwarted by a mouthful of crème brûlée.

“So,” John asks casually, as he taps at the caramelized shell on his half, “what do you think?” Personally, he’s decided that the crème brûlée is pleasantly sweet and lightly creamy, but John’s just thankful it didn’t turn out a heavy, cloying mass. 

“Of your crème brûlée?” Harold asks, and John holds in the _No, of our deviously engineered date,_ as Harold rolls the cream over his palate again. “The cream’s not too sweet,” he says slowly, “and your choice of fruit garnish matches it well enough.” Harold pauses, poking reproachfully at a blueberry with his spoon. “I think it could benefit from some strawberries, though.”

“Yes. Strawberries,” echoes John, eyes drawn to the tiny dollop of cream sitting just at the corner of Harold’s mouth. He’s tempted to reach over and brush it away with his thumb. Or an act even more risqué: to lean forward and _lick_ it away.

He doesn’t. 

“You’ve, um,” John says, pointing at his own mouth. He tells himself he’s only dimly wistful when Harold dashes the offending cream away with a napkin. 

They talk through John’s lunch break (he can only assume Harold’s on his too), and while Harold plays his cards excessively close to his chest—John only unearths that he’s an IT guy at a small tech company and that he enjoys vintage movies, like John does—they manage to converse at length about the written word.

Harold must be the largest repository of knowledge regarding literature that John’s ever met, because they meander their way through Kafka and Tolstoy, with a dash of Dickens, though Harold seems to draw the line at Orwell; something about John’s speculation on the present-day existence of _Nineteen Eighty-Four’s_ omnipresent surveillance nightmare seems to touch a nerve. 

“I should be getting back,” Harold says eventually, standing to push in his chair. It’s only then that John realizes how much _time_ has slipped away from them, the flaxen midday sun settling into washed-out hues of late afternoon. “Thank you for today, John.”

John stands as well. “It was fun,” he blurts out. There’s no way to put it that doesn’t sound contrived or rehearsed, so he goes for blunt honesty. 

The look Harold gives him is one of keen surprise, as if he can’t believe someone would actually _enjoy_ spending time with him. “There’s this theatre,” Harold says suddenly, bolstered by some unknown font of courage, “over by the East Village. Perhaps when you finish work tomorrow, we could—that is, if you’re amenable to—”

John’s familiar with the theatre he’s speaking of, already nodding _yes_ before Harold even finishes. “I’d like that.”

Harold releases a subtle breath, relief patent in his smile. “Very well, then. Tomorrow.” 

John figures there should be enough time to run out and catch a movie before he has to return to the agency. “Tomorrow,” he grins back, as Harold inclines his head and leaves the bakery.

As soon as Harold’s out the door, Lissa flashes John a double thumbs-up sign from the counter, eyebrows raised in question. John flashes one back, despite how incredibly goofy he feels. It’s like he’s in one of those campy, feel-good movies. 

And maybe he _is_ in one, because in the span of a day, he’s had a makeshift date, shared a dessert with Harold, and even managed to hoard precious nuggets of information about him from one session alone. He mulls over the last nugget he learned before Harold’s departure, and by the time the bakery closes for the day, John finds himself at a donut shop two blocks away, clutching a crinkled paper bag of croquillants, the variety of donut Harold let slip that he was partial to, which John doesn’t have the implements to make back at the bakery. 

Maybe he’ll give them to Harold when he stops by the bakery on his lunch break again, so he’ll have something extra to enjoy at work—that is, if his wingman Nathan doesn’t steal them all first. 

On second thought, maybe it’s better to just share them with Harold during the movie tomorrow.

Tomorrow will mark the seventh day since they met, and if John was given to sentiment, it will also mark their one week “anniversary”. He hasn’t given much thought to this kind of thing, not after Jessica, but _Harold_ —

Harold makes him _feel_ again, and for the first time in a while, John thinks he might actually feel _happy_. Even if this thing between them started off on the wrong foot, then evolved into a game of sorts, John’s started to enjoy this game of theirs, with the banter and amusement he’s come to associate with it, so much so that it’s metamorphosed into something more, something that transcends a mere study in reciprocity.

He turns his collar up against the wind that’s starting to rattle the trees, wary of the rumble of thunder overhead; a storm is brewing. 

Being with Harold makes John feel _infinite_ and alive, like they have all the time in the world, and John decides that next time, he’ll kiss away the trace of cream on Harold’s mouth. Next time he’ll be so bold as to take Harold’s hand in public, perhaps even… 

_Next time_ , John decides, and he smiles to himself, the dreamy, moonstruck kind that’s been showing up more often since _Harold_.

~

There is no next time.

“Operation’s a bust,” Kara bites out, when John stops back at the agency that night. She rakes a hand through her chestnut hair, irritated. “The target must’ve been warned off—he hasn’t shown up this whole _week_. We’re moving out.”

“Where to?” John asks. He’s careful to maintain a casual mask of neutrality. 

Kara wrinkles her nose. “Moscow.” Perhaps it’s the lack of hair and beauty products she’s accustomed to over there; whatever it is, she’s never seemed to like Russia. “Make your excuses and pack up. We have a job to do.” 

She continues on, reeling off details about their flight and where they’ll connect with their contacts, but all John can think of is not being there for Harold’s lunchtime visit, not catching that movie Harold wanted to see—things that somehow took up all the space in his heart, discounted and trivialized in the name of another nameless mission for the CIA.

~

“What’s this about you leaving?” Lissa demands. She plants her hands on her hips as John tries to slink out the back door of the bakery. It’s about to open for the morning, and already the aroma of melted chocolate, drizzled caramel and sweet cream winds tantalizingly through the kitchen. The familiar sights, sounds and fragrances call him back, like John belongs here, even when he knows he doesn’t.

“There’s a family emergency upstate. I’ve got to fly up there today,” John lies. As far as deceptions go, it’s a terrible one, but people have done more extreme things for less. 

“Oh.” She blinks. “You’re coming back though, right?”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone,” replies John, and the truth of that causes a pang in his chest. Russia could be months— _years_ , even. 

Lissa gives him a smile laced with disappointment. It’s the same one the bakery manager offered him when he gave his two hours’ notice (less than that, even), though that was more for the loss of John’s “Pastries of the Day” he’d been engaging in to please Harold, which turned out to be inadvertently lucrative. 

Neither of them are the ones John is concerned about having to disappoint. 

“Sorry,” he says. He considers platitudes like _I’ll drop by when I can_ , but it’s better not to make false promises in his line of work. It must be twisted coincidence that while thinking of promises he can’t keep, John’s fingers light on the bag of croquillants in his pocket. “Actually, I…was wondering,” he starts, slipping just the right measure of hesitancy into his request, “if you could do me a favor.”

Lissa glances at him, resigned. “What is it?”

“Could you give this to him? To Harold?” He draws the crumpled bag from his pocket. “We were supposed to meet today but I…I won’t be able to make it.”

“Why not give it to him yourself? He’ll be by in a couple hours, and you can tell him—”

“My flight’s in an hour,” John says quickly. His mouth’s gone dry from all the untruths he’s layered into his story. The real answer is _I can’t_ , because if he stays, he’ll see Harold and he won’t _want_ to leave. He’ll want to keep playing baker, with his piping bags and cake pans instead of returning to the world he knows, of poisoned wine and concealed pistols. He’ll want to discuss Dickens, go for movies, and plan leisurely strolls in the park; things a killer has no right to want. Not from someone like Harold.

If he stays, he’ll have to _explain_ , and Harold won’t buy this “family emergency” lie, because Harold is better than that, and he’ll _know_.

“But things were going so well! And now you’re just going to dump a bag of donuts on him and disappear from his life?” Lissa asks, incredulous. She’s not wrong; these excuses and lies and half-crushed donuts are a poor offering indeed.

“Not _disappear_ , I just…have to go away for a while.” John can’t quite meet her eyes. “It’s—” He touches his tongue to his lips. “It’s better this way. For both of us,” he says numbly. 

If he says it to himself often enough, he’ll start to believe it.

“Don’t do this,” Lissa says. Just when John’s wondering _When did_ you _become so invested in a relationship that wasn’t your own?_ she adds, “Ask him to wait for you.”

It’s _that_ phrase that stuns him, makes John’s breath freeze in his chest, unable to draw air, because _no_ , he can’t extract that kind of promise from Harold, especially not from someone he’s known just for a few days.

“Please,” he manages at last, closing Lissa’s hands around the package. He slips a small card into the bag as he does so, one that bears a handwritten message.

_Sorry. – J_

He really is.

~

They’re two weeks deep into the mission in Moscow (and five dead bodies up) when the concierge at the hotel they’re staying in stops John on his way in.

“For you,” he says, confused. He slides a parcel across the marble desk. It’s postmarked over American stamps, addressed to an _Ivan Reznikov_ , John’s alias here in Moscow.

“What is it?” John asks. The concierge shrugs and turns away, having fulfilled his duty in delivering the package.

Kara peers over John’s shoulder. “Someone’s idea of a sick joke, probably. Whatever it is, it _reeks_.”

He opens it later, when Kara’s busy touching up her makeup in the bathroom (cultivating her femme fatale persona takes _work_ , after all). 

It’s a box with a cinnamon bun in it, probably homemade, clumsily decorated with frosting. 

It has also sprouted a forest of mold, green growth poking up between what once was frosting, like weeds pushing through cracks in cement. John’s not quite sure how long it was in transit, but he palms the note it came with, and when he’s sure no one’s watching, he reads it:

_Forgiven. – H_

John can’t help the twitch at the corner of his mouth, because this is Harold returning the favor for all of John’s efforts. Perhaps even an apology for all the little hurts he’s visited upon John in the form of backhanded compliments, unaware of the time they had left together. 

He wonders how Harold found him, his aliases, his location. If he’s omniscient somehow, or has friends in various places. Connections. Either way, if Harold’s sent this, he knows where John is, knows what he does, and there’s sudden relief because John no longer has to _hide_. 

If Harold _knows_ , he might even accept John for what he is. _Who_ he is.

He’s in the middle of scribbling back a feverish response when he hears the _clack_ of stiletto heels upon the bathroom tiles. He remembers honeyed perfume, lips the color of deadly nightshade, and _Rein it in or I take him out_ , and it’s a harsh reminder that he _can’t_ contact Harold again; there will be no juvenile game of pen pals, no clandestine correspondences, because even if Harold knows his way around tech well enough to hack the CIA to find John, all the tech skills in the world won’t help him if there’s a gun to his head. Which _will_ happen if he’s drawn further into this world.

John strikes a match from a cheap matchbook with the hotel’s logo, holds the flame to the note. This will be his secret forever, a secret that will consume him like the flame consumes Harold’s words—not that he doesn’t have a billion others.

“What were you _doing_?” Kara asks later. The acrid tang of burnt paper still lingers in the room. “I didn’t know the Boy Scout had a streak of pyromania in him.”

“Just exorcising old ghosts,” John says. He watches the remaining ashes float out the window, into the dry Moscow air, his last defense against the night, the dark, gone.

~

He never finds out what happens to Harold.

Eventually, when enough time passes, when enough deaths weigh on his conscience, John reasons that even if Harold did have feelings for him, he was in love with a fiction: the John that drew shy, revelatory smiles from difficult customers, baked pastries and cupcakes with hands stained with flour and custard, instead of the blood and bile of his targets. 

Still, he keeps the memories of those days close. They help him through the dark, through the death, but there’s only so far they can go, and by the time he’s been halfway around the world, killed more than a dozen people in the name of the government, he finds more solace at the bottom of a whiskey bottle than the fading memory of man with glasses and a three-piece suit.

Sometimes, though, when he passes a bakery, breathes in the buttery warmth of bread, the sweet tang of savory tarts, John feels a distinct ache of loss.

Like there’s something that used to fill the void, the hollow space within him, but he’s not sure what.

~

It’s been a hell of a day: he’s beat up some punks on the train, been interrogated by the police, and bailed out by some mysterious benefactor.

En route to meet this unexpected philanthropist, John realizes there’s only half a bottle of whiskey left. He needs to find a different form of solace, and soon. Or succumb to oblivion. That wouldn’t be so bad. A cold night or two under an overpass should do it. He’ll figure it out later.

“Do I owe you money?” John asks, stepping out of the car of his own accord, before the hired muscle can manhandle him. 

The good Samaritan of dubious provenance glances warily at him, and despite his hawkish profile, the atmosphere changes, just a touch. There’s a faint foundation of trust, though John hasn’t done anything to warrant it, and warmth, despite the wind that bites through John’s third-hand coat.

Something’s familiar about this man, something pleasant. Maybe it’s the precise cadence of his speech, the impeccable sense of dress. John can’t quite put his finger on it, but he will, given time. 

“You don’t owe me anything,” the man says. John thinks he hears the crackle of a paper bag in his pocket. As if his fist is closing around something precious. “And you can call me Mr. Finch.”

This is where John learns there’s a niche just for him in this man’s personal crusade.

And just like that, he feels needed, he feels necessary, because he’s been given a _purpose_.

~

Somewhere between “Knowledge is not my problem” and discovering an alias of Mr. Finch (“Harold”) in the HR department of IFT, John _remembers_. It’s Harold, _his_ Harold, of a decade past, with his wire-rim glasses and bespoke suits and the kindness he hides under a veneer of distant aloofness.

But he’s different now; they both are. This is Harold without his wingman, Nathan. This is John the ex-CIA killer who no longer dabbles in baking.

Nevertheless, they fall into an easy pattern of starting off the day with or lunching on baked goods, just like before. John starts making a habit of bringing in green tea and donuts, and on rare days, croquillants, if he feels like secretly spoiling his employer. Harold brings in rarer treasures from around the city: a box of petites fours, slices of treacle tart. 

On one occasion, when John returns to the library after rescuing a number, there’s a chocolate croissant waiting for him by the computers. Harold’s sitting in his chair, mixing a cup of tea as he casually peruses Kafka’s _The Metamorphosis_. 

The single lump of sugar in the tea must have been stirred within an inch of its life by now, because Harold’s been at it for several minutes. He’s also watching John from the corner of his eye.

John sighs inwardly; Harold most definitely needs some lessons in subtler surveillance.

“Is this for me?” he asks, plucking the croissant from the plate and examining it with a frown. There must be a secondary purpose in this offering; everything Harold does is layered with meaning. 

Harold shrugs, and with a long-suffering sigh of his own, mumbles something about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. 

John bites into the croissant. It’s still warm, the pastry richly flaked and buttery with a center of creamy chocolate. Upon further inspection, he notices it’s lopsided, the chocolate sauce drizzled over it uneven, and that’s when it hits him: this is Harold trying to bake again, and quite an improvement from the disastrous first cinnamon bun, at that—

John frowns. He didn’t even know there was an oven in the library. 

He makes a mental note to speak with Harold about fire hazards later, but at the moment, all he says is, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Harold. 

It’s almost as if Harold remembers, remembers their time together, their informal rendezvous at the bakery so many years before. John shakes his head; it’s more likely Harold never _forgot_. He stares, and keeps on staring, as if by doing so, he can _will_ Harold into divulging just how much he recalls.

“Would you care for a drink as well, Mr. Reese?” Harold asks instead. He sets his own cup down on a saucer.

John notices Harold’s burn-reddened fingers, from the hot cup, and suddenly, he’s struck by the urge to kiss those fingers. He wants to kiss them all better. Wants to lick the tiny crust of sugar that’s caught on Harold’s upper lip and call him sugar, honey, darling and dear. 

He leans in slowly, giving Harold ample warning of what he’s about to do. Tips Harold’s face up by the chin, kissing him on the lips.

It’s an experimental peck only—no heartrending fallout if Harold no longer feels the same as he did before, but Harold surprises him with his fervent nod, eyes oddly bright as he whispers, “Yes, _yes_ ,” fitting his mouth to John’s, his burn-reddened fingers sliding over John’s face, the heat in them searing into John’s cheeks like a brand, until John’s left with the distinct feeling that he is Harold’s, and Harold is _his_. 

John licks his lower lip. It’s intoxicating, the taste, an amalgamation of chocolate and something else, maybe something in the coffee, before he realizes it’s the taste of Harold that he’s drunk on, the taste of Harold on his lips.

“Yes. Thank you,” John manages finally, the _thank you_ that means _I love you_ , and he’s pleased as punch at the resultant flush that spreads across Harold’s cheeks and down his throat.

It’s here, in this moment, in the process of measuring the worth of human lives and saving or sparing them, that they find their own lacking, wanting for more than just tea and donuts, coffee and croquillants, and the partnership established to save people’s lives ends up saving their own. 

It becomes something more, becomes what it was meant to, and maybe—just _maybe_ —it’s the first step in answering the _what ifs_ and _could have beens_ that have plagued John all this time.

~

“…And that’s how the story goes,” Jenn says finally, drawing John out of his reminiscence. “One of our own left some of these for a customer he fell in love with, but couldn’t be with.”

“So you started making croquillants here, every year, on this day?” Harold asks, eyebrows rising.

Jenn nods, the beginning of a dreamy smile pulling at her mouth. “In the hopes that one day the customer might return here, drawn by what we couldn’t make before. And that the baker would find his way back, and they could be together, yeah.”

Harold beams at the girl, and she grins sheepishly at them, the faintest rose blush coloring her cheeks. 

“I know it’s just a story, an urban legend, but I thought it was sweet.” Perhaps it’s subconscious, but she holds her head high, defiant, as if daring them to challenge her notion of romance, of love.

While John’s still reeling from re-hearing his—no, _their_ —story, Harold puts in an order that includes at least one of every item and ends with something that sounds unnervingly like _All the croquillants, please_.

By the time he’s recovered from his introspection, John has the oddest urge to laugh, a giddy sort of giggle welling up inside him. He settles for a faint chuckle instead. 

“How about that, Finch?” he says, as the girl hurries off to grab some tongs and a box for their order. “Our story has passed into _legend_.” He’s reminded of the Chinese legend of a pair of ill-fated lovers, a cowherd and a celestial maiden only able to meet once a year via a bridge of sympathetic magpies.

“ _Urban_ legend,” sniffs Harold, adjusting the corner of his glasses. They’re no longer wire-rim now, having been replaced with a pair of darker, thicker stock. “And we’ve enough stories springing up about your ‘Man In A Suit’ persona already, we don’t need another one.” He pauses to cast John a withering glance. “Besides, the version she told us is wrong. _I_ wasn’t the one who left, Mr. Reese.”

“Factual inaccuracies?” offers John, grinning weakly as he raises a shoulder in a half-shrug.

“Factual _atrocities_ would be more accurate,” Harold replies, arms folded over his chest.

“I don’t know about that. We’re here, aren’t we?” John asks softly. He lets his hand slide subtly around Harold’s waist to draw him closer. “Together?”

Harold opens his mouth to argue, but as Jenn presses a green tea and a box of the baked goods into his hands, and a coffee into John’s, Harold examines the box, thoughtful. When he meets John’s eyes again, the hard lines around his eyes have softened, and he reflects the smile he’s given. As if he’s finally allowed himself to be hopeful. “Yes. That we are.”

Rummaging through the box, Harold turns up Hungarian nut horns, marbled chocolate cookies and the bakery’s staple cupcakes, until he finds what he wants, pulling out a cupcake adorned with satin buttercream and roasted coconut morsels. 

“For the road,” says Harold haughtily when John raises a brow at him. He takes a delicate bite of one of the cupcakes, leaving a dab of frosting over his lip.

 _What is it with him and getting cream on that precise spot? Is it deliberate?_ John wonders. This time, he stoops over, takes Harold’s face in his hands, and kisses him: just a gentle, warm brush of lips as he lets his tongue flick against the corner of Harold’s mouth.

Harold responds with a sweet, but calculated smile—so he _did_ plan this, sly devil. John forgives him instantly, anyway.

They’re about to head out the door, when Jenn calls out, “Wait, your other order!”

She rushes toward them, an enormous box swinging from the bag in her hand. “That’s—that’s all the croquillants from today. Just, wow,” she says, breathless. “No one’s ever bought so many at a time before and—” She stops, casting a shy, secretive glance at them. “You wouldn’t happen to be…” 

John gives her the most mysterious smile he can muster, the one that Harold’s perfected, and sweeps them both out of there before Harold does anything else to give away their identities. 

“ _All_ the croquillants?” he says, as soon as they’re outside. There’s a light rain coming down, so John hefts the bag to one side to pull out their umbrella. 

Harold takes the bag from him, sliding it onto his own arm where the other bag rests, and John takes it as his cue to slip his arm around Harold’s waist again. It’s an easy flow of action, the kind that just comes naturally to them now.

“And a yearly delivery on this date to a post-office box near one of my safe houses, yes,” Harold replies nonchalantly.

“Isn’t that a bit much?”

“I’m sure Bear won’t mind a reward for adhering to his special diet,” says Harold, rummaging through their purchases. 

As if on cue, Bear barks happily from the fire hydrant he was leashed to, tail thumping against the pavement from under his bright orange service vest. They’d left him outside as a courtesy to the bakery, it being such a small space. 

“Besides,” Harold adds, as Bear noses at his hand, spelunking for the Danish hidden inside, “we owe it to them, don’t you think? For this?” He eyes the slowly closing distance between him and John. “ _Us?_ ”

John’s only response is to nod and drop a light, affectionate kiss against Harold’s temple, and they make their way down the street, Bear and bulging boxes of pastries in tow, into the quiet of the gently falling rain.

**Author's Note:**

> Also check out the awesome fanart that V made for this story [here](http://i7.photobucket.com/albums/y283/slamduncan21/stuff%20to%20ul%20to%20sites/rinch01.png)!


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